Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent eBook

In her heart; so bitterly, indeed, that all relish
for life had departed from her. She was now spiritless,
hopeless, without an aim or object, or anything to
sustain her, or to give interest to existence.
Philosophy, which too often knows little about actual
life, tells us that a consciousness of being innocent
of the social slanders that are heaped upon an individual,
is a principle that ought to support and console him.
But the truth is, that this very consciousness of innocence
is precisely the circumstance which sharpens and poisons
the arrow that pierces him, and gives rancor to the
wound.

On the morning in question, Mary sat by her mother
who lay reclining on a sofa, each kindly attempting
to conceal from the other the illness which she felt.
Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on
the contrary, was flushed and feverish.

“I wish, my dear mother,” said she, “that
you would yield to me, and go to bed: you are
certainly worse than you wish us to believe.”

“It won’t signify, Mary; it’s nothing
but cold I got, and it will pass away. I think
nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you
look so ill; why don’t you strive to keep up
your spirits, and to be what you used to be?
But God help you, my poor child,” said she, as
the tears started to her eyes, “sure it’s
hard for you to do so.”

“Mother,” she replied, “it is hard
for me; I am every way surrounded with deep and hopeless
affliction. I often wish that I could lay my
head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish
to do so with my name unstained—­and, on
the other hand, what is there that can bind me to
life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to
die now; I know not, mother, what to do, I am very
much to be pitied. Oh,” she added, whilst
the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, “after
all, I feel that nothing but death can still the thoughts
that disturb me, and release me from the anguish that
weighs me down and consumes me day by day.”

“My dear child,” replied her mother, “we
must only trust to God, who, in his own good time,
will set everything right. As it is, there is
no respectable person in the neighborhood who believes
the falsehood, with the exception of some of the diabolical
Wretch’s friends.”

Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible
symptoms of aversion, even to momentary sickness.

“If,” pursued the mother, “the unfortunate
impression could be removed from poor, mistaken Harman,
all would be soon right.”

The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl;
she made no reply, but for some minutes wept in great
bitterness.

“Mother,” said she, after a little time,
“I fear you are concealing the state of your
own health; I am sure, from your flushed face and
oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than
you think yourself, or will admit.”

“Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am;
I feel certainly very feverish—­I am burning.”